


Only For One Night

by OfScarletLetters



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Drugged Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Forced Orgasm, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Suicidal Thoughts, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29186280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfScarletLetters/pseuds/OfScarletLetters
Summary: Malcolm thinks about some of the things he’s shared, the kind of things that keeps him up at night and what monsters lurk in the shadows at every hour of the day. How much he told this man who he barely knows and how much he resonated with some of it. He’s not sure what keeps him up at night, but there’s comfort in knowing he isn’t alone.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	Only For One Night

**Author's Note:**

> Just going to give a big thank you to Tess for helping me carve this monster out; you always give me the best ideas and look at the mess you made! 14k, wow! To those who've clicked, please head the warnings above if you're squeamish. Thank you, and enjoy.

The city life is quite boring.

For someone who has lived in the same spot his entire life, he thinks he should be accustomed to the bustling nightlife that pelts outside of his window from dusk till dawn. However, as he swings his feet out of the cab and onto the pavement right next to a busy intersection, discomfort settles under his skin and the urge to step back into the cab flares up in the back of his mind.

He pivots on his heels and checks over his shoulder to see if the cab has left, and to his dismay, the cab is nowhere to be found. He reluctantly turns back to the club in faded grays and purples, takes a deep breath, and releases it as he starts up the sidewalk.

Entry is a breeze. He already knows that this isn’t his scene, but he’s thankful that there’s a calmness to the atmosphere around him. Fancy cocktails, men in thousand dollar suits, women wrapped in dresses with the finest jewelry money can buy; something livelier than a lounge, but too mellow to be an actual nightclub.

The room is full of chatter among the blaring music, loud enough for the few people dancing in the middle of the room, but quiet enough so no one has to shout for a conversation.

He perches himself on a seat at the end of the bar furthest away from the rest of the action on the floor, hiding out so he can try to drink by himself in peace. Even though he knows the loft is the better, safer option to let loose with his liquor, it’s the same exact reason why he left in the first place.

He’s not a heavy drinker by any means. But lately, he has been fighting an itch that drinking by himself won’t scratch, so he figures a bar is the next best thing. The high-end clubs never really fancied him. The patrons were either too uptight or on the older side with nothing left to do but blow cash on top shelf booze and expensive cigars. They never fancy him, but here he is in the middle of Manhattan’s finest, adorning his thousand dollar armor, nursing a full glass of bourbon with enough cash to buy the franchise if he so desired.

He downs it in one go, hoping it’ll hit his system just as fast and tamper his nerves. His glass is refilled before he can say the word, and nods to the bartender as they walk away to the other end.

To keep his subconscious occupied, Malcolm scans the room through the tables and leather booths, to the center of the room where a party of men are being entertained by a group of uninterested women. He almost feels sympathy for them. He sips at the liquor and scans the room again, creating pointless profiles for strangers who aren’t even aware that he exists.

He rationalizes it’s a necessity to keep this from being more than just a few drinks and a not-so-great night out.

The chameleon act doesn’t last long.

When his watch hits the top of the bar, his glass following suit, a man takes the seat one over from his, deliberately ignoring the several empty sides on the other end. The second his arm goes up for whiskey, Malcolm immediately turns his profile on to this guy who clearly knows nothing about bar etiquette.

He thinks back to Gil warning him not to profile Dani all those months ago, how some people want to be seen as themselves rather than being pulled apart and dissected before they get to know someone. The words still have an effect on him. It’s a crucial lesson he’s had to learn, but he’s grateful for it, and it would be heartless of him not to apply it elsewhere.

His eyes glance over at the man chatting it up with the bartender, and he kicks himself for labeling this man a threat before he even knows his name.

Which is written on a napkin placed right in front of his glass.

It takes a second too long to process, and another when the silhouette of a man appears in the corner of his eye. In the split second he has to prepare himself, Malcolm analyzes a hundred different ways to get out of this interaction, one of them being ignoring the man altogether.

Under the dim lights, he has a smile that could charm the pants off of any woman who dared to say yes. An equally expensive suit to match, one you would see in any corporate office, slicked back dark hair, soft features, and a towering height that puts him over six feet and at least fifty pounds heavier than Malcolm. Easy on the eyes. Attractive in a way that’s almost annoying.

The slightest bit of irritation coats his tongue. Its guys like these Malcolm can’t stand. Rather, he wishes it were that easy for him.

“You look like you could use some company,” he says easily, a bright smile on his face. “If not, just say the word and I’ll turn around and forget this ever happened.”

Malcolm’s eyes narrow a bit and his smile is cold, his walls towering to the height of skyscrapers. “Is this your napkin?”

The man nods with a sheepish smile. “I couldn’t think of any other cheesy way to introduce myself.”

“You could start by telling me your name instead of placing it on a napkin.”

The bite to his words sit on his tongue, ready to strike. To his surprise, the man doesn’t seem put off by his display of defense, and judging by his unwavering smile, he probably views it as a challenge. Malcolm takes a sip from his glass and empties it without looking up to see the giant fumble over his words now that he is forced to confront him. His lips curl into a smile; this game is suddenly more interesting.

“Okay, well,” the man starts, a slight waver to his words, “I frequent this bar pretty often, and me and Nate go way back – he’s the bartender in case you were wondering. I’ve never seen you before, and thought you could use some company. We have a lot of regulars come through, so it’s rare to see new faces.”

Malcolm hums and nods in response. He supposes there is truth to his words, seeing how most of the patrons are in groups and have assumed their spots all over the room. A part of him would kill to have something like that.

He looks back up to the man less tense, but still on guard. “And who are you? I know I can read the napkin, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

Without skipping a beat, the man slides onto the barstool next to him and puts his hands in his lap albeit a bit awkwardly. “I’m Thomas.” His hands fumble with nothing to do. “What’s your name?”

The need to profile feels like a need to breathe; he struggles to turn it off, even in a random club in a room of people who’d commit white collar crimes before ever thinking of murder. He makes a quick decision to tell him his real name, because he can’t explain why he gets the feeling this guy is no dummy and will see right through him. “Malcolm,” he says, and offers his hand out. Thomas eagerly reaches out to shake it and sits back in his chair, attentive.

“So, what brought you here tonight? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Malcolm sighs as if it shakes off the weight on his shoulders. He debates what equates to an answer that doesn’t like a lie to get out of this conversation, but the man’s presence reminds him of someone a lot younger than he lets on. He assumes an age, late twenties, and guesses that despite his frequent visits to the bar, he’s a bit on edge like this is his first time talking to a stranger. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.

He quickly gives up and substitutes a lie for the truth. “Didn't want to drink alone tonight.”

That catches Thomas’s attention, his brows slightly furrowed and a stiffness in his back. Then he relaxes in the chair with an elbow on the bar top and listens.

Malcolm tries to shrug it off. “I’m used to it – there’s nothing wrong with a little peace and quiet, you know.”

“I suppose.” Thomas tilts his head to the side. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re still drinking alone.”

Even though he is a total stranger, the honesty is oddly comforting, less condescending than what he’s used to hearing. He laughs at that, but there’s no humor behind it. “I suppose you’re right.” He stares into the empty tumbler in his hand, absently tapping the glass with his fingers. “It’s easier to relax when you’re focused on other people. Helps me get out of my head for a while.”

In most respects, he sees himself as an open book for the world to see after spending his life ashamed of who he is. Then he thinks about the people he meets, the ones he doesn’t want to scare away; surely this is not appropriate for someone he’s just met. If he never sees this man again, then maybe it is. He seriously doubts it.

“I get that,” he says, and Malcolm feels like he can breathe a little easier. “Sometimes, having company around can be good. Easier to just exist than to remember you’re alive, kind of thing.”

Malcolm hums. “I wish it were that simple.”

“Don’t I know the feeling.”

Like an alarm, Malcolm looks across the way at Thomas, now looking off to the side, and pries a bit more. This feels like profiler gold, a crumb that he can dissect to understand, but he forces himself to stop and give it up. If he wants to delve into his own demons, he will do it on his own accord.

Not everyone wants to be profiled.

Thomas fumbles to respond after that. He whips his head around to the shelf as if it never happened. “Nate?” Thomas calls, and the bartender turns around at the mention of his name. “This round’s on me. I’ll take whiskey.” He looks to Malcolm expectantly for a response and it takes him a second to get the memo, but when he does, he tips his glass to the bartender.

“Bourbon.”

Thomas’s smile is contagious, because Malcolm can’t hold back a small grin of his own. Nate brings them fresh glasses and disposes the used ones, taps the bar and slings a hand towel over his shoulder. Nate sends them a wink and walks over to another patron requesting a refill.

Malcolm raises his glass. “Thanks.”

Thomas takes a swig and settles his elbows on top of the bar. “No problem.”

He looks down at the full glass and back up at Thomas, then down at his glass again, and takes a sip. A warmth brings goosebumps to his skin underneath his suit, appreciative of the gesture. He also takes into account that this is his third drink and he hasn’t taken his medication yet, so he drops the tension in his shoulders and tries to relax for a bit.

Silence stretches on while the two men sip their alcohol. It’s a comfortable silence that neither of them want to break, and Malcolm finds himself curious about where to go from here. He feels his mind start to analyze every scenario, every route this conversation could go, but he stops himself again so he can enjoy a genuine conversation.

He curses his overactive mind.

“So,” he starts, and Thomas looks up from his glass. “Why do you come here so often? What is it about this place that you like so much?”

Thomas hums and takes a second to think about it, his brows creasing. “Well, for starters, I’m good friends with the owner. We go way back, classmates at Wesley [some rich white school]. Outside of that, I like the crowd,” he says, shrugging. “It’s like a second home to me. Which is weird to say about a club, but we all have our own little corners to escape to. Oddly enough, I feel safe here.”

“I get that,” Malcolm replies, “and it’s not odd.”

“There are other things, too. For example, the view from the bar is always nice to look at.” He can see Malcolm’s frown out of the corner of his eye, not following where he’s going with this. “Here,” Thomas turns his back to the bar and leaves his body open to face Malcolm, pointing to a group of people seated together at a well-lit booth. “See that? Just a group of friends hanging out without a care in the world, soaking in the time they have left before the night ends and they have to get ready for work in the morning.”

“So, people watching?”

Thomas nods. “Precisely. I mean, the view’s always great when I’m here. There’s young couples, cute girls, you, and all sorts of people that come in here every night.”

Malcolm finds himself nodding while he explains what he meant by view, completely overlooking the obvious. Then he replays the list in his head to find a connection, something that he resonates with, when it suddenly clicks for him, and he stares up at Thomas with his mouth slightly agape like he’s unsure of what to say next.

“I’m sorry, was that too forward?” Thomas cringes, flushed from the joke and himself, digging his palm into his forehead while his other hand anxiously fiddles with the glass.

Malcolm lets the feeling wash over him. “No. No it’s...fine.” His ears redden underneath the dim lights above and he runs his palm over the back of his neck, chuckling. “It’s fine, really. Just surprised me is all.”

Thomas waves him off and sits up in his chair, a bit defensive. “We can pretend I never said that. Wipe it completely from the record, you know how these things go.”

A distant pang in his gut hopes he doesn’t. “I mean it. It’s fine. We don’t have to pretend.” The words slip from his lips faster than he can take them back, stunning his movements the second Thomas glances back at him. He’s done it now.

Thomas just nods and turns back to the bar, elbows perched while he downs the rest of his whiskey and grimaces at the burn in his throat.

Malcolm scrambles to say something, feeling slightly awkward about it. “I...like to people watch too.” Thomas nods, not really buying it. “I do,” he reiterates. “In fact, it’s part of my job. I’m a criminal profiler.”

“A profiler?” Thomas looks him over again. “For the police?”

“Well, sort of. I just consult on cases whenever they need insight. Other than that, I’m just as average as one can possibly be in a high-end club drinking alone on a Thursday night.”

The self-deprecating laugh misses Thomas, his brows dipping when Malcolm keeps going. “You’re not alone.” That doesn’t miss Malcolm, though; his eyes widen a bit, the hairs on his neck stand as goosebumps rise again. “What about me?” Thomas turns to face Malcolm, his drink still in his right hand. “What does your profile say about me?”

He shuts his eyes and immediately shakes his head and takes a sip. “No, I don’t do that. I’ve been told it’s not a party trick.”

“Well, why not? I’ve been told that I’m an open book.”

He shakes his head again and puts his hand up to stop him. “Not everyone wants to be profiled. It’s invasive and clinical. It’s just for the job.”

“I’m not like everyone else.”

His voice comes across soft and defenseless, smooth as butter and rich like caramel. It makes Malcolm look Thomas over again, _really_ look at him, strangely affected by a person he’s never met. He’s not like everyone else; by some miracle, he hasn’t scared him off yet.

Words are hard to come by.

“It’s okay, Malcolm,” Thomas says, and hearing his name from his lips sends another wave of goosebumps over his skin. “I’m not going to force you to do something you don’t want to.”

Malcolm nods at that as he lets his words sink in and allows his anxiety to tamper down. “Right,” he nods again, running his palm over his hair. “Sorry.”

“Seriously, it’s all good. We can talk about something else.”

There’s an ease to him that’s alluring. An attitude to contrast his own, someone who knows how to have fun without letting the small things ruin it for everyone.

A smile curls on his lips. “I’d like that.”

They find themselves in an easy conversation, falling in a routine where one talks about themselves and the other listens. He learns more about Thomas as the minutes go on, discovering what really lies beneath the charm and the expensive cufflinks on his button up. A profile built on information given to him and not unearthed by his own eyes. He becomes a bit more confident as the night goes on, but he never diminishes his humility.

Malcolm purposefully ignores the part where his father is a serial killer. Instead, he gives Thomas a crash course about the other things in his life, where he came from, and what he’s doing now.

Avoiding eye contact is harder than he anticipates. He can see the deep, dark brown eyes staring at him while he talks, a dopey smile while he listens, and it’s almost too much to handle when he suddenly feels warmer in his suit.

The conversation stretches on for so long that Malcolm neglects to check the time. When his phone buzzes in his pocket, he quickly apologizes for the interruption and briefly flips the screen to see who is calling him. To no surprise, it’s his mother. He lets the phone ring to his voicemail, quickly checks the time and sees that it’s almost eleven.

The unfamiliar feeling of getting to know someone has tripped him up more times than he cares to admit. Thankfully, Thomas is patient and understanding, and he doesn't tease him about it.

He looks at Thomas again, a different man from the one that handed him a napkin at the start of the night. Of course, he only knows what Thomas wants him to know, but he doesn’t fault him for it; everyone has their own demons, and who is he to judge?

Then his stomach turns.

He doesn’t want to end this just yet.

Malcolm thinks about some of the things he’s shared, the kind of things that keeps him up at night and what monsters lurk in the shadows at every hour of the day. How much he told this man who he barely knows and how much he resonated with some of it. He’s not sure what keeps Thomas up at night, but there’s comfort in knowing he isn’t alone.

 _Your trauma doesn’t go away because someone pretends to understand you_ , the nagging voice in the back of his head spits.

He knows it’s true. That this man, as charming and understanding as he may be, doesn’t change a damn thing.

A stark coolness washes over him, something akin to a lightbulb going off. If it doesn’t change a thing, then why is he so caught up in it? The idea of sleeping with a total stranger doesn’t exactly seem enticing; he’s no stranger to one night stands, but he isn’t prepared for this, and his gut is screaming at him to walk away from this. To stay in his comfort zone.

His mind comes to a screeching halt. He stops overanalyzing it and turns to Thomas. For once in his life, he needs to let go.

Malcolm straightens up. A deep breath goes in like he’s preparing to say something he knows is risky, but his inhibition has left the building and he’s too wound up for someone who has nothing left to lose.

“Would you like to go back to my place?”

* * *

In less than ten minutes, the tab is paid for, a cab is hauled, and the pair find themselves en route to Malcolm’s loft. There’s a bit of a high he’s riding on from the probability of sleeping with a total stranger, something he hasn’t felt since college when he had a window of self-destructive behaviors. This isn’t that, but he can’t deny how good it feels to embrace the itch to be close to someone again.

However, there is one small problem.

It’s awkward.

It’s a twenty minute ride back to the loft but in the few minutes they’ve spent together in the cab, the silence has created a wall higher than the plastic between the front and back seats. Both men sit with their hands in their laps, staring out the window while the driver rides in silence save for the low jazz music from the radio.

An enclosed space like this sends his nerves haywire. He readjusts in the seat for the fourth time, flipping the corner of his suit jacket over his thigh and resuming looking out the window. It doesn’t take a profiler to notice Thomas keeps stealing looks every so often. It doesn’t take a genius to see that Malcolm finds it nice, thrilling even.

The tension spreads like heat throughout the cab, the unspoken made obvious to the driver who keeps his head forward without making any conversation. Malcolm silently thanks him for it.

“Hey.”

Malcolm turns his head to Thomas with his brows raised.

“I’ve been working up the courage to ask you something this entire time and it’s eating me alive if I don’t say this.” Warning bells go off in his head and Malcolm scans every inch of him, practically bracing for the worst. Shaking off some of his nerves, Thomas takes a deep breath then looks Malcolm square in the eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

He blinks.

Once the shock wears off, he checks in with himself, stuck on the way his lips gleam and how assertive his posture is, thinking about what it would feel like to be pinned by his much larger body. He abandons the thought and focuses on the here and now, and finally lets his heart do the talking. “Yes.”

Slowly, Thomas tucks a piece of hair behind his ear and rests his palm against his cheek, fingers sprawled over his neck and his thumb right on the cuff of his ear.

He can’t explain it, but Malcolm feels like he’s falling faster than he expects to, too caught up in the moment to think about anything else. Gently, he rests his hand on Thomas’s thigh as he inches closer, closing the gap between them until their lips are mere centimeters away, galaxies far apart.

Warmth pools in his stomach as his muscles start to relax and his eyes slide shut, his slightly parted lips met with a soft, gentle kiss. Malcolm pushes forward to deepen the kiss and Thomas eagerly returns the favor, pulling his face close and dropping his free hand on Malcolm’s upper thigh, mimicking the one on his own.

What is sweet turns to longing, and at some point, they have to pull apart for air but neither stray too far from each other. Malcolm brings a hand to the one pressed against his cheek and holds on like he’s afraid to let go, leaning into the touch and running his thumb across his smooth skin. If all it took was a kiss to bring him down, Malcolm wishes he would’ve done it sooner.

When he finds Thomas looking at him with those beautiful brown eyes, Malcolm ducks his head and focuses on his touch. It’s not everyday someone sees him like this. Staring at him so fondly, reaching out to hold him. The hand on his thigh squeezes gently, letting him know that he’s there, checking if this is okay, and Malcolm just answers him with another passionate kiss.

He keeps his hands right where they are, distantly aware that they’re making a scene in the backseat of a cab, and succumbs to the pressure of Thomas’s hand trailing up his thigh to rest on his waist. They remain intertwined for what feels like forever, trading small pecks in between languid kisses, and when it becomes hard to breathe, Malcolm is the first to pull away and relaxes against the seat.

He’s not sure what has him so sated and relaxed, willing to fall head first for some physical touch, but he simply doesn’t care. He craves something Thomas can provide, so he ignores the questions and his nagging doubt and chooses to live in the moment with him.

Eventually, the cab comes to a stop right next to the curb and flashes his lights once he’s in park. Malcolm fumbles at his side to pull out his wallet to pay the fare, but Thomas insists and adds a very generous tip to the bill, bids the driver farewell, and hops out of the cab to Malcolm’s side.

He steps out with both feet planted on the ground and rubs his eyes with his palms, feeling the beginnings of a migraine. He thinks back to the bar and how he never sipped water at any point, and he can’t remember the last time he ate.

“Is everything okay?” Thomas asks, worry evident in his voice.

Malcolm waves him off as he shuts the cab door. “I’m fine. I’m kind of kicking myself for all of the alcohol I had.” He taps the top of the cab to send him off, fumbling through his pocket to find the keys to the loft. Thomas stands attentively at his side. “Which is making it hard for me to get my own keys,” he says with a nervous laugh. The jingle of the key ring makes an appearance when he finally pulls them free and jams them into lock.

The tug in his shoulders prickles down to his arm, making it hard to turn the key, but the latch gives and the door swings open with ease. He waves his hand out in front of him with a warm smile. “After you.”

“Thank you.” Thomas heads up the stairs while Malcolm locks the door behind him and follows after. The giddy feeling from earlier is back, spreading warmth through his suit as his mind wanders to what’s about to happen. He reaches the top too soon and unlocks the front door to the chime of Sunshine and the faint bustle of her cage.

“Well,” he starts as Thomas walks into the space. “This is home.”

The cool air sweeps forward, sending shivers down his spine, but is chased out from that warm, fuzzy feeling he can't explain. Thomas stands only a few inches away from him, mesmerized by the space that he doesn’t notice Malcolm quietly watching. “Sweet place you’ve got.”

Malcolm shuts the door behind him and walks out in front to join him. “I could give you the grand tour if you’d like.” The slight smirk doesn’t go unnoticed. Thomas just chuckles and curls his arm around his waist to bring him close.

“Everything I want to see is right here.” He plants another kiss and pulls away with another devilish smile. “Do you live here by yourself?” he asks, observing the space.

“Yup. It’s just me and Sunshine.”

“You and who?”

Malcolm points to the silver cage tucked away by the door nesting the parakeet he’s incredibly fond of. “My only roommate.”

Thomas simply hums, a bit amused but doesn’t voice it. “Did you tell anyone you were bringing someone home?” Just as he’s about to answer, Malcolm frowns, stumbling on the question. “For instance,” he explains, “girls will text their friends if they’re going to bring a guy home. Like a safety thing.”

He ponders the idea a bit. Who would he tell? There’s no way in hell he would tell his mother, and Ainsley is just as bad. Sharing details of his sex life with the team is not exactly appealing to say the least. Maybe Gil, but he already has enough on his plate to worry about than who Malcolm brings to bed after work.

He shakes his head. “Don’t have anyone to tell.”

Thomas hums and snakes a hand around his waist. “I don’t either.” He spins him around until his hand rests on his lower back and the other intertwines their fingers together as if he were to dance, but he holds Malcolm steady and starts kissing him again.

For someone he’s just met, Malcolm can’t get over how romantic Thomas is. In the back of his mind, he knows that this is probably going to end with empty promises and unresponsive text messages that leave him wondering where it all went wrong, but right now is good enough to forget it. Caught in the arms of a man who doesn’t see the monster everyone else sees; Thomas _sees_ Malcolm, so to hell with it if it’s only for one night.

Malcolm stumbles to hold himself up after he trips over his shoe and Thomas catches him immediately right before he falls sideways.

“Sorry,” he mumbles in his chest. He’s thankful his face is hidden or else Thomas might see the blush over his cheeks like the air is suddenly stiffer, or the embarrassment of tripping over himself in front of his guest like a nervous wreck who can’t hold a drink.

“Here, lay down for a sec.” He nods and complies without question, silently trying to figure out where the sudden nausea came from as Thomas supports his lower back on the way down to his bed. Back colliding with the sheets, his stomach settles once he stops moving, a deep sigh on his lips when he’s comfortable. “How does that feel?”

He gives a curt nod. “Better.” He swallows hard and takes a deep breath, attempting to get his act together before he actually ruins the night for the both of them. His eyes slide shut just for a moment, so focused on slowing his heart rate that he barely notices the dip in the bed.

“Malcolm, hey,” he calls, a hand cupping his face while the other rests on his waist. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

His eyes open to soft brown ones staring down at him, a glint of worry in them. “No, I want to.” He tries to sit up but his arms feel like lead and his legs like jelly, and he curses himself for taking that third drink when he knows better.

“Alright, alright. Take a breather and relax,” he stops Malcolm from saying anything else. “I’m going to wash up first. I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t go anywhere.” His warm, reassuring smile has Malcolm nodding as he gets up and starts walking away. He sends him a wink right before he closes the bathroom door behind him.

Malcolm takes the advice to relax. Shuts his eyes, lies flat on the bed, and focuses on his breathing to quell some of his growing anxiety, hoping it will get rid of the nausea in his gut. Time passes in between the sounds of the street and the sloshing of the faucet. The same faucet that’s been running for a few minutes now. Well, maybe not minutes, but long enough for Malcolm to understand it shouldn’t take forever to wash his hands.

_I should check on him._

His elbows dig into the sheets and he plants his palms face down to push himself up, only to freeze when he realizes his limbs feel like lead. He tries again, this time attempting to on one side so he can at least push himself up that way, but nothing happens.

He tries again. Again and again and again and still nothing happens. Wiggling his toes is impossible and his fingers barely have nerve endings he can feel.

_I can’t move._

The faucet shuts off before the thought can evolve, Malcolm barely able to lift his head off the pillow; the door swings open and Thomas emerges with his cufflinks off and his sleeves rolled up. That warm smile he’s come to adore is back. “Hopefully I didn’t keep you waiting too long.” His knee makes a dip in the sheets. “How do you feel?”

Malcolm knows he has to play his cards right or else this can turn sour very quickly. “Good. I think I just need to take better care of myself,” he laughs, the humor still lacking. Thomas doesn’t follow the reaction, and that makes his stomach twist.

“You should always be mindful of what you put in your body.” Idly, he loosens the tie around his neck and pulls it apart completely. “Thirsty?”

A quick check in, his mouth is pretty dry. “Actually, yes.”

“Where can I find the glasses?” The bed dips again when he pushes off and walks over to the kitchen, scanning the contents for what he can find, pulling on random drawers as he goes. The slosh of wood fades as orange bottles slide into view.

“Upper cabinets. Might have a mug laid out.”

A fire blooms underneath his skin, leaving him slightly flushed as his body temperature slowly rises. The sound of cabinets closing and drawers shutting is merely background noise to the demands of his body seeking that familiar touch. Malcolm cranes his head to watch Thomas’s lean figure walk around the kitchen still seemingly lost, and suddenly everything tunnels through this heat he can’t explain.

His fingers itch at his side. Heat pools in his veins, yearning for something he can’t get, and his body is sewn into the fabric like he’s dead weight.

_Not good._

“Hot,” he practically whispers to no one, and Thomas snickers.

“Why did you say it like that?”

Malcolm swallows hard, trying to build the courage to say what he wants but his mind is so foggy, he can’t help but focus on the need building beneath the belt. “Sorry, it’s just warm in here.” He distantly wonders if he should change the temperature in the room, surely Thomas feels it too.

He just smirks and forgets the water completely, and makes his way back to the bed. “I can help with that.”

Thomas starts working the suit off of Malcolm like he weighs nothing, discarding the jacket on a chair in the corner and knees the bed again to start on his shirt.

Somehow, his presence feels a lot heavier than it has all night. No matter how hard he tries to ignore it, Malcolm can’t shake the negative feeling flooding in his gut, prompting his hand to shake at his side.

“It’s okay,” he stammers, “I can do it myself.”

“It’s okay if you’re nervous, Malcolm,” Thomas shakes his head and shushes him, working on the buttons of his shirt all the way down until his chest is exposed, goosebumps flaring as a chill works up his spine. His fingertips barely scrape his stomach above his belt, and it’s enough to send electricity buzzing down his pants. “I promise to take it slow.”

Once his shirt’s pushed back to his shoulders, Thomas stands up to shed his tie and unbuttons his own shirt and tosses it aside, then toes off his shoes and places them right next to Malcolm’s.

His heart pounds in his chest as he watches Thomas undress right in front of him, stripping off every layer one by one as if he has all the time in the world. The cold, sinking feeling in his gut tells him that might be the case.

The sound of a belt buckle has never terrified Malcolm until now. His ears unwillingly pick up the drag of the leather against his slacks as it slides off, the clank on the ground making him nauseous all over again. His eyes squeeze shut for a moment, trying to think of saying to say that won’t spark the wrong reaction, but he feels his chances dwindling by the second. He flexes his shaky hand in search of some strength down to his toes, but his body has gone numb while his mind races to think of a plan.

Malcolm lifts his head off of the pillow as far as his neck allows him. “What are you doing?”

“Just admiring the view.”

Thomas unbuttons the top of his pants but leaves them on – a grace period Malcolm thinks to use to his advantage – and gently swings his legs over the bed and nearly straddles Malcolm at his sides. Palms on the bed by his hair, towering over Malcolm with a slight smile on his face, the traces of his profile pick up on misplaced fondness. “Thomas, wait.”

“You’re so beautiful, Malcolm.” The sultry voice startles him as his hand gently smooth over his skin once more. “So pretty.”

“Thomas –” He’s silenced with a bruising kiss, much harsher than the pecks traded in the back of the cab, now full of lust and burning need. Their teeth nearly clash as Thomas searches his mouth with his tongue, a deep moan slipping out when he passes Malcolm’s lips to get a taste. He’s too distracted by the lack of oxygen suffocating him that he nearly misses the press of Thomas’s knee between his legs, anchoring himself as he leans in for more.

When Thomas comes up for air, Malcolm’s mouth is aggressively pried open by gentle fingers. Those beautiful brown eyes have lost their rich charm and his pupils are blown wide which can only mean one thing. “What are you doing? What is this?”

Thomas wiggles his finger in front of his face, teasing, and places the digit right above his lips.

“What did you give me?” he demands, a soft shake to his voice. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the presence of something foreign in his system. His mind works overtime between identifying what it is and the fear threatening to swallow him whole.

“If I told you, that wouldn’t be any fun, now would it?” he pouts, a childlike anger to his words, consuming Malcolm with dread when it slowly starts to come together like a puzzle he doesn’t want any part of. “I can’t tell you all my secrets, Malcolm. I want it to be a surprise!”

It’s not the alcohol that blindsided him. It’s something else, an agent of sorts that’s powerful enough to keep him awake, observant and completely motionless, but he knows it’s not the thing that can account for the sudden arousal after every single touch.

He so desperately wants to blame it on the drugs floating through his body, something else to blame instead of his crushing loneliness that made him weak and careless, a profiler who left his blinders on for a complete stranger.

_God, this can’t be happening._

Thomas sits on the edge of the bed and sighs. “You think too much. That’s why I had Nate slip you the ecstasy. Had it cut with a paralytic because you were just so wound up, I thought it would relax you. I know everyone reacts differently, but it seemed to help the others.”

Malcolm’s jaw drops. Drugged. Drugged without even realizing it.

Scared is an understatement. “You’re –”

“Maybe I should wait. This place is really neat, after all,” he says wistfully. “Do you mind if I look around?” Without waiting for an answer, Thomas gets up from the bed to walk around the loft quietly humming to himself. And Malcolm is forced to watch.

His first stop is the kitchen. Thomas plucks a napkin and opens up the fridge observing its meager contents with a disappointed sigh. “Don’t cook much, I see.” Then he swipes the half empty carton of milk from the top shelf and twists the cap open with the napkin, drops the lid, and pulls it out of the fridge. He shrugs and it’s down the hatch. Thomas fountains the cold milk until he’s satisfied, smacks his lips to savor the taste, and then shrugs again.

Shock isn’t even the half of it.

Then he pours the rest out in the sink, back to humming his way around the space. Empty carton placed to the side and his fridge closed, he throws the napkin away and follows the next big thing that has his attention: the red wall covered with sharp objects.

To Malcolm’s horror, the sound of his weapons case opening fills the loft with a swift clank as the doors lock on their hinges. His heart catches in his throat in anticipation for the worst, and he _can’t_ , it can’t just end it like this.

“Don’t – Thomas, please,” he whispers, voice cracked and broken. Truthfully, he’s not sure what he’s begging for. Plunging the katana through his chest would put him out of his misery, or maybe the broad scimitar through the skull might be a blunt way to go out. Anything would be better than this. “Don’t touch that.”

“What, this?” The sound of his katana slicing through the air raises the hairs on his neck and quickens his breathing. Spliced by his own collection would be one very embarrassing obituary, but he’ll get his wish for a quick, less painful death he’s always dreamed of. “How could I not? It’s so cool!”

All Malcolm can think about are the smudges left on the delicate handle, the prints on the case doors, and his saliva swirling around in the milk carton. The stench of cinnamon floating around his loft is no longer pleasant and inviting, but produces a headache he can’t stand, strong enough to block the sound of the latch and the squeaky fluttering of Sunshine in her cage.

“Hey there,” Thomas coos, fingers brushing against the metal. “She looks so pretty under the moonlight.”

Malcolm’s heart drops to his stomach, twisting in knots and his eyes grow wide as saucers. “Don’t touch her. Don’t you fucking touch her,” he spits through gritted teeth, desperate to make his legs move but they’re completely glued to the sheets.

“What did you say her name was? Sunshine?” he calls, eyes bearing down on the parakeet. He wastes no time opening up her cage and slips his hand in, grabbing her by her middle despite her frantic flapping to remain in her cage. She squawks as she’s forced into the cup of his hand and Malcolm can’t bear the sight of her being taken. “Hello, Sunshine. Tell me, what do you think of your dad over there? He’s so cute when he’s nice and pliant like that, isn’t he?”

“Don’t hurt her,” he roars, resolve shaking. “Let her go, Thomas, I’m begging you.”

Thomas raises his eyebrows and hums in surprise. “That’s a new one. I never pegged you for the begging type.” He gently places her back in her cage, a grin over his lips as she flutters and chirps, and starts to pad through the loft again. “Oh, Malcolm,” he groans, palming himself through his slacks. “You've really done it now.”

His fear spikes as he slowly approaches the bed. His hand drops to the edge of the bed as he leans over Malcolm from the side, mesmerized by the sheer horror in his eyes.

The urge to scream in his face is quelled by his fear to reason with him, a burning intensity to stop him from taking more than he already has. “Thomas, please.”

“Now, about those pants of yours.”

There’s no time to think. “Wait, stop – I don’t want this. I don’t want to do this.” With every ounce of strength left in him, he strains to move his wrist so his fingers brush against Thomas’s skin. Thomas looks him in the eyes, that childish demeanor nowhere to be found. “I swear I’ll do anything you want, just – please,” he pleads, “don’t do this.”

For a split second, Malcolm believes Thomas hears him.

“That’s unfortunate.” He actually sounds hurt by that. “We were supposed to do this together, Malcolm. I thought you wanted this.” He looks down at the pile of clothes on the floor in sudden silence until he looks back at the sheets, a frown in his crease.

Then the frown disappears in an instant, and a smile returns to his face as if nothing happened. “I know what’ll help.”

Thomas finally sheds his own pants and starts working on Malcolm’s, his touch sickeningly gentle with every press as he pulls them off his legs without much grace. “Now, these are a good brand,” he says, eyeing the black briefs taut on his thighs. “I have a friend who does business with them! I should put you guys in touch some time.”

Panic builds in his chest as he watches Thomas palm himself in anticipation, gaze transfixed on Malcolm’s half-hard cock.

“No,” he chokes out. “No, no – please don’t,” he hardly hears himself now, stuck on the verge of tears and unbearable panic at the will of this man.

Thomas hums and gently places a hand on his knee, pushing it to the side to give himself a better view, and drops the same hand in between his thighs. His fingers trace from his taint up the curve of Malcolm’s cock, milking soft whimpers and startled gasps that make his briefs impossibly tighter. He can feel the ecstasy at work, because every feather touch feels like an electric spark he can’t control, fueling his arousal like nothing else.

“Open your eyes for me, love. I think you’re going to want to see this.”

Before he registers that his eyes are closed in the first place, the tug of his waistband sends his heart into overdrive and his chest starts to seize, his whimpers morphing into frantic, panicked gasps.

“Stop, please don’t do this,” he desperately pleads, feeling the sickening dread of his options running out. In a matter of seconds, his briefs slide down his legs and off the bed, exposing his entire body to the man above him as his skin perks up from the cool air in the loft. Shame threatens to swallow him as Thomas drinks in the sight, sliding down onto his stomach and settles between his thighs, eyes trained on Malcolm’s leaking head.

He presses his thumb against the tip, earning a sharp hiss followed by a string of curses as he smears the precome over his fingers. “You’re so wet for me,” he chuckles, resting his head on his inner thigh. “How cute.”

Thomas slowly pries his legs open until he hears a pained noise that tells him he’s gone too far, settling on a happy medium and situates himself until he’s comfortable. Malcolm can feel his breath inch closer to his skin, and he thinks he might crumble if he comes any closer. But it’s far too late.

“Stop–!” His cry is instantly cut off when Thomas wraps his tongue around Malcolm’s cock and slowly takes him whole.

Malcolm bites down on his bottom lip as his neck snaps back, holding back a deep moan in his throat. The warmth around his cock is already too intense for his body to handle, every nerve on fire with every swipe of his tongue, and Malcolm hates how his mouth waters for more.

“You taste so good,” Thomas moans as he pops off, a trail of spit left on his tongue. “I could get used to this.” He bows his head again and swallows him to the base like he’s starving, not letting up or slowing down for a second.

The worst part is Malcolm can’t deny how amazing it feels. He knows this is simply a biological reaction to stimulus, a fact he can rationalize, but his need for more and his utter disgust leave him dizzy with despair at the mercy of a man who knows how to work a cock.

He teases and sucks at his length, lips coated in precome and saliva like a bad home video with a thumb digging into his cheeks and his fingernails sunken into his hips.

Tears well up at the corners of his eyes as his orgasm quickly arrives at its peak, fearing he might give Thomas the satisfaction of proving his point, but by the grace of some higher power, Thomas pulls off of his cock with a drunken expression. He hums and licks his lips, staring down at Malcolm with such fondness.

He wants to die.

“That was fun!” The bed becomes lighter once Thomas steps off to sit on the edge, back turned to Malcolm as he swings his feet. He takes another look at Malcolm’s spent figure over his shoulder and grins. “Feeling any better, yet?”

Malcolm snarls at that, throwing all of his rage into a single expression. “Fuck you,” he spits, venom on his tongue.

Thomas looks him in the eyes, stern and cold. “You’re not satisfied, are you?” he asks, clearly disappointed. Disappointed in _himself_. Malcolm’s not sure if there’s anything worse than this. He doesn’t get the chance to find out; Thomas springs up off the bed in a haste, yanks open his night stand and rummages through its contents, desperately searching for one thing and one thing only. “Where do you keep your lube?”

Malcolm’s heart thuds in his chest, stuck on a lie that he knows won’t work. It’s too late, because Thomas spots the clear bottle in the corner underneath books and scattered trinkets and pulls it out, slamming the drawer shut behind him. He rushes to resume his position in bed and Malcolm can’t will his body to move any faster. “Don’t – Thomas, don’t do this.”

He settles on his knees and pops the cap open with a snap, shoving his legs further apart and coats a good amount over his fingers. “The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you, Malcolm.” He tosses the bottle aside and readjust so he can sit on his heels and use his free hand to hold up Malcolm’s leg by the underside of his knee. The sight of the lube is supposed to bring him comfort, a small window of grace, but he can hardly breathe as if water is dragging him down with his smothering fear. “This should help with the stretching.”

“Please,” he mutters in disbelief. “You don’t have to do this. I can get you anything what you want, anything. Is it money? Connections?” Heart drums in his chest as he runs out of options, offering anything and everything outside of his body.

“What’s the point if you already have everything? Well –” He stares down between his legs, smiling in a way that makes Malcolm gag. “–almost everything.”

The briefs Thomas wears are a lie; he slips his slicked fingers past the waistband and pulls his own cock free, heavy and massive in his palm. It makes Malcolm’s head spin, and he knows right away that he’ll never fit no matter how much prep he’s graciously given.

“I’ll do anything you want. Just say the word and I’ll do it.” He fights to maintain his composure, but begging becomes second nature and he almost regrets the words the second they slip out. “Please. Just not this.”

Thomas raises a brow. “Anything?”

He nods, hesitant. “Anything.”

For a moment, Thomas thinks it over. His erection never softens while he gives genuine thought to Malcolm’s desperate invitation. A lightbulb goes off faster than he anticipates and Thomas is back to staring with his otherwise charming smile. “Can you do something for me?”

He nods. “Yes, of course.”

“Can you say my name?”

Malcolm stares in disbelief. “What?”

“When you come, can you say my name?” He ducks his head a bit, and rubs the back of his neck, disgustingly bashful. “Titles or pet names never worked for me, but I like it when they say my name out loud. It’s kind of a thing I have.”

Malcolm is at a loss for words. “You’re unbelievable,” slips past lips before he can catch himself.

Thomas seems too preoccupied with putting on a condom to really care. “I was going to use this,” he nods to the lube, “but you seem to be fine without it.” He’s back in missionary right in between his legs and pulls Malcolm up by his hips, that hungry look in his eyes on full display. “Safety first, right?” Malcolm’s legs fall open perfectly, revealing himself for the whole world to see, and lines his cock up, ready for the taking.

This can’t be happening. There has to be another way. “Thomas, please don’t –”

“Over time, you’ll learn to accept me. They all did.”

In one go, Thomas forces his way through that tight ring of muscle, and an unearthly scream fills the loft. The world blacks out for a moment, a tiny window of bliss before his body gives way and something tears, snapping him back to reality. “See? Doesn't that feel a little better?” comes from above, but the only voice he can hear is the one that almost resembles his own.

The slow, brutal pressure splits him open way past the point of unbearable, his insides burning as they’re shredded with glass all the way to the hilt. Thomas finally bottoms out with a deep groan, breathless, and looks down at his lap with a fond smile. “Red is such a beautiful color on you, Malcolm. Looks good on me, too.”

Brushing his fingers over his hips until he’s seated comfortably on the bed, Thomas slowly pulls out, takes a moment to admire the new color on the sleeve of his cock, and shoves back in with enough force to punch another scream out of Malcolm. The drag of his cock over torn skin sets his insides ablaze, the slap of skin against skin a painful reminder.

It’s agonizing. He can’t see past the tears in his eyes, a constant flow down his cheeks and neck, soaking the bed along with the dampness underneath him. As if it can’t get any worse, Thomas slows down and leans over his body, unconsciously driving himself in at an unforgiving angle.

“Please don’t cry,” he pouts, visibly upset. “You were so happy on the way here, I thought you would enjoy it. You’re going to make me think you’re regretting this.” No amount of tears is enough to make him slow down; it only encourages him more, driven to make Malcolm come more than anything else. A sob wretches its way from his throat as he breaks down with every thrust, overwhelmed by excruciating pain, and Malcolm swears this is exactly how it’s going to end.

He’s not going to make it through this night alive.

Thomas’s nails draw blood as he works himself into a steady rhythm, eyes slit shut, distracted by lust and completely blissed out. Malcolm’s screams die down to uncontrollable sobs, one’s akin to that of a child, face scrunched in pure agony as he struggles to catch his breath amongst the searing burn in his body.

Thomas pumps and pumps and _pumps_ like he’s still unsatisfied, like it’s inadequate, like his body isn’t enough to get him there, and he curses through the impossibly tight, wet squelch like it’s the gift that keeps on giving. “God, you feel amazing,” he moans, digging his nails even deeper. “Tell me, is this what heaven feels like?” he grunts through every word.

“Stop,” his voice barely above a whisper. He swallows back any spit to numb the swelling in his throat, but it only irritates it more. “Stop this.”

Thomas looks down at Malcolm’s half-hard cock lying against his thigh like dead weight, and an unspeakable rage starts to build within his chest. His entire demeanor shifts like a light switch. “What is this?” He snaps his hips, practically shoving Malcolm forward. “Am I not good enough for you?” Suddenly, he pistons in and out with unrelenting strength, ripping an ear-piercing shriek from deep within Malcolm, fresh tears not far behind. “Answer me!” Something else tears; white hot pain runs through his spine like electricity and Malcolm howls, stretched too wide and too paralyzed to do anything about it.

A rough hand starts jerking his shaft with haste in time with his thrusts. “Come on,” he chants, “that’s it. That’s it, just like that.” Malcolm just shakes his head, lips curled in a frown, silently begging for this to be over.

Judging by the sputtering hand jerks and long strokes, Thomas is close, and maybe, just maybe, he can get away with just finishing. It doesn’t take long for that anger to morph into pure, unadulterated euphoria as he thrusts in quick jolts and finally spills into Malcolm with a shout. Thomas moans as his hips start to slow, fucking into that smooth mix until he buries himself at the hilt and stays there, hooked in the divots made in Malcolm’s skin.

Malcolm’s sobs begin to subside, and he can’t catch his breath. He’s not entirely sure he’s breathing at all. Air has long since left his lungs replaced by complete shock and horror, lost in the sting between his legs and the hazy light-headedness that makes him close to blacking out again. Passing out right here wouldn’t be the worst thing to ever happen to him. Maybe Thomas can finish him off then.

When he finally pulls out, the drag is just another numbing afterthought. Thomas sits back on his heels with a wistful sigh and takes a second to admire his work, silently critiquing and jotting down mental notes with a small smile.

“You didn’t finish with me,” he sighs, a bit disappointed at the sight of his still flaccid cock. “Maybe I should’ve lowered the dosage instead. Typically, everyone finishes one way or another; didn’t think I’d be the one doing it tonight.” He crawls over to sit at his side and caresses his cheek with cold hands. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

The grip of his cold hand brings him off the ledge as he starts to jerk him again. Thomas seems to know what he’s doing despite the overwhelming pain in Malcolm’s body, because in no time, Malcolm can feel a warmth pooling low in his gut from just a few tugs and the drag of his thumb. “No,” he breathes out, face scrunching up again, “no, Thomas –“

“Uh uh,” he playfully chides, “not until you come, remember?”

He’s so lost in the pain, so lost within himself, the pleasure is a burning afterthought that he hardly recognizes in the pulls and tugs.

“You liked my tongue better, didn’t you?”

Malcolm doesn’t answer. His mind is elsewhere trying to keep him safe, but it’s a futile effort in the midst of a monster whose name is probably an alias. No answer is the inevitable yes that ends with Malcolm’s cock wrapped in the freezing cold of his hand, adding to his feigned arousal until he can’t differentiate between pain and pleasure.

“Say it.” Thomas strokes him with vigor, harder and faster. “I want to hear you say it, Malcolm.”

“No–!” He doesn’t have a choice.

“Say it!” His strokes switch to an iron grip around his cock and squeezes at the base. “Come on, do it for me. Let me hear that beautiful voice of yours.”

His grip turns gentle as he strokes him again, and Malcolm can only lie pliantly in his hands. “You’re sick…”

Somehow overriding his pain, Thomas makes good on his word to finish him off. To Malcolm’s absolute horror, it's just enough pleasure for his body to give in and cave at his mercy, spilling into his hand with Thomas’s name on his lips.

“Good job,” Thomas praises, milking him until he’s sensitive. “Feels better, right?”

Thomas drags his tongue over his palm to lick up every last drop. He hums at the taste and gets up off the bed, moving to dispose of the condom out of Malcolm’s line of sight somewhere in the direction of the front door. Footsteps on the hardwood have never carried so much weight with them until now; until he starts to redress like Malcolm isn’t even there.

Like this is just another job to him.

Like Malcolm is just another plaything to him.

In his foggy haze, he knows that both of these are true. In his foggy haze, he doesn’t want to think about what’s happened or what he could’ve done to prevent it; damaged goods are just as broken as shattered glass.

“Since it took so long for the dose to finally work, the effects should wear off soon. If you’re lucky, of course. Everyone reacts differently, but you know that already since you’re a cop and all.”

“Profiler.” Not that it matters.

Thomas just shrugs. “What’s the difference? You’re shit at your job, anyways. That, or just really desperate. A profiler who can’t see what’s right in front of him? I mean, why are you even here?”

Another punch to the gut. “How could you?” Malcolm hates the way his voice cracks. How it gives away how broken and weary he feels; how it leaves him open and exposed to Thomas’s bidding. He hates everything about himself right now, so much that he can scream himself raw for days until his lungs give out.

“You wanted this.” Thomas eases himself down on the edge of the bed and places a hand on Malcolm’s chest and one to cup his cheek, tender and cruel. “Remember?”

His sweet touch evolves to a tight grip on his jaw, forcing Malcolm’s head to hold steady from breaking eye contact. “I remember you lying to me,” he grits through his teeth, glaring with tears at the rim, refusing to let them fall again. “Hurting me. Still going when I told you to stop.”

“I asked you before we started if you wanted to continue, and you said yes. This was entirely consensual, Malcolm. You do realize that, right?”

“Nothing about this was consensual –”

“You said yes, and we both got what we wanted. It’s as simple as that. Don’t make this more complicated than it has to be, okay?” His grip tightens as he presses a soft kiss to his temple then finds his eyes again with that same fond expression that’ll haunt him for weeks. “It’s just sex, Malcolm.”

It feels like the world is going to collapse and crush him. His heart stops, and he forgets how to breathe. His head throbs like nothing else and mutes the world around him, hands at his sides as his eyes start to fill with unshed tears.

“Everything is a means to an end.” Thomas gets up off the bed and breezes past the bathroom, stopping to do a quick body check, fingers pressing over his pockets until he’s satisfied to have everything in place. “Judging by those bottles you’ve got stashed in the drawer over there, I’m pretty sure you understand that better than anyone else.”

“Shut up,” he groans, exhaustion wearing his bones like metal anchors, “just shut up.”

A beat passes, and panic starts to build in anticipation for another round surely to come. It doesn’t. Instead, Thomas turns back on his heels with a cold smile and nothing behind the eyes, and towers over the frail body beneath him in disgust. “I showed you a great time – the least you can do is be respectful.”

With the fear bubbling inside his chest, Malcolm swallows and silently nods. He still has time to grab the Katana off the shelf and run it through his heart and kill him right there.

Thomas nods, assured, then grabs a napkin from the kitchen and walks himself to the door. He takes one last look before he rests his clothed hand over the latches. “I’m going to miss you, Malcolm. I really hope we can see each other again.”

He’s had enough.

“Get out,” he whispers, suddenly consumed with rage. “Get out! Get the fuck out!”

For the first time this night, Thomas actually listens. With that same warm, charming smile, he opens the latches and pulls on the handle, making his exit without further commentary. The door closes with a soft click, the sound of the metal door downstairs shuts with a heavy thud, signaling that he’s finally gone.

Malcolm’s rage dissipates just as quickly as Thomas disappears. He can’t hold onto himself any longer; the world tilts on its axis and everything fades to black.

* * *

Sunshine is in his ear. Chirping in her cage and flapping her wings as if she’s intentionally trying to make as much noise as possible. To her efforts, it works.

Unfortunately, it only adds to the searing pain behind his eyes and the unexplainable ache up his spine throughout his entire being. Everything is sore. Any twitch tugs on a muscle and burns. His eyes screw shut and scrunches his face until he sees stars in the black and the throbbing has lessened just a smidge. A soft groan passes his lips. He needs to move.

He can’t tell how long he’s been out. It’s still nightfall as far as he’s concerned, giving him a second to try and sort out the muddled whispers of his subconscious.

He knows the pain will be there whether he moves or not, so he decides it’s better to be on his feet than stay on his back any longer. He braces his hands on the sheets and slowly pushes himself up, wincing at every fraction of muscle that’s pulled as he goes until he finally stops with his elbows locked behind him.

He scans his body for recognition, to check and see what he can and cannot feel. One thing’s for certain: he doesn’t have any clothes on, but there are purplish bruises and scrapes coloring his skin. A heartbeat skips out of rhythm at the sight, leaving him scrambling for answers, wracking his brain for a glimpse of memory, an explanation for the agony that’s impossible to ignore.

Bruises on the hips. Scrapes over his thighs. Can’t feel his lower half. Lethargic, fatigued, nauseated. The sticky, dried blood on his inner thighs throws his heart into overdrive. Every little piece of evidence he can compile evolves into one giant, messy profile that he wants absolutely no part of.

Something else stops his heart. He’s no longer paralyzed.

A glass of bourbon. A casual conversation. A long cab ride home. A man in his loft. The memories flood him like water out the gate, drowning him in every ache, emotion, touch and kiss like he’s pinned down by locked leather cuffs. Like it’s happening all over again.

His chest constricts on him and collapses until the only noise in the loft is the wheezing from his mouth hanging open, dry and cracked, gasping for air. A tremor shakes his frame like a violent chill, voicing a disturbance too profound for words, and the overwhelming urge to do something he won’t live to regret keeps him confined to his bed, perfectly still. No amount of pain will stop him from doing the unthinkable.

Phone. He needs to get to his phone.

By some miracle, his phone is right where he expects it to be, lying on the nightstand, completely untouched, but not within his reach. One big breath in and out, Malcolm braces himself for the worst and carefully lifts his lower half off the bed, hissing at the ache as he moves, and plants himself right by the edge with a silent cry.

He seriously can’t breathe and it feels like the world is tilting to black again before he can get a chance to unlock it. A thumbprint is all he needs before his screen goes white and expands, his home screen feeling foreign as he attempts to type through the blur for one name and one name only.

One look at the time makes him dread opening up a blank text message. He does anyways, because he can’t do this alone. He can’t afford to be alone.

His shaky fingers manage to type out an S.O.S. that only one person will understand.

_Home_

_Need help_

He buzzes the entire time waiting for a response. Seconds pass like molasses from a jar, reminding him at every tick that this isn’t true, that this is some cruel, elaborate prank by his subconscious or these are some poor victim’s memories that he’s mixed in the web of his psyche.

This doesn’t happen. Not to a profiler. And especially not to him.

And yet...

The breeze in the air feels too real.

The throbbing between his legs won’t go away.

The touch of his hands are still on his skin.

His phone buzzes in his hand like lightning to a tree and brings the world back to attention.

_On my way._

Malcolm stares at the message on the screen, not really processing the weight of the words, and drops the phone to his side, blinking at the cracked bathroom door.

So he waits. He waits and he waits in that same sitting position with the top sheet over his lower half while time blurs into nothing but an endless loop of Sunshine rattling around in her cage.

At some point, the rummaging stops.

“Kid.”

A calloused hand slowly comes into focus.

“Focus on me. I’m right here.”

Malcolm blinks.

He’s sure asking for help and finding him naked in bed is not how Gil imagined how he would be spending his night. The lack of clothes and disheveled expression has Gil reaching for his gun while keeping a steady hand on the edge of the bed. “What the hell happened, Bright? Is someone here?”

Malcolm shakes his head.

Gil relaxes his grip on the gun and maintains a comfortable distance from Malcolm by the steps. He can see the beginnings of thought; in his peripheral, Gil slowly raises his hands in mock surrender with a suffocating gaze filled with worry.

“I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to help.”

Malcolm’s hum gets caught in his throat. Gil takes two steps forward, pauses, and then moves forward. He surveys what looks to be a crime scene in front of him, Malcolm caught in the middle, and starts picking out a few details to get a better picture.

“Can I see?” Malcolm doesn’t have to ask what he means by that, because Gil’s eyes shift down to the blanket covering the rest of his body and trail back up to his.

Malcolm violently shakes his head so much that it physically pains him to stop as an onslaught of tears make it much harder to see the broken expression on Gil’s face. Numb and detached, tears start to fall hot and heavy down his cheeks and his chin, his breath taken in the same action, trying to hold onto what’s left of his sanity but he can feel himself slipping out of reach.

“Malcolm…” If it takes just one question to bring Malcolm down, Gil knows he’s in way over his head, and this might not be something he can fix.

The way he can hear Gil’s heart break even further only decimates every single wall he’s ever built. A broken sob bubbles up in his chest until he loses the capacity to breathe altogether, and Malcolm collapses into a heaving, blubbering mess. His arms wrap around his middle as he wails into his lap head first, stuck in an uncomfortable position, caught between breathless cries and distressing moans while Gil stands helpless at his side.

A wretched scream builds and builds until he’s dizzy and delirious and starts to pull at his hair, hands searching for release, scrambling to make their mark alongside the punishing bruises and scrapes.

It’s when his nails make their way into his skin that Gil breaks his stance to grab Malcolm’s wrists. Malcolm immediately jerks back and shrieks, yanking away from his touch, but Gil isn’t keen on letting him go this time and forces his fists to stop. “Bright,” comes off as a warning with no real heat to it. “Look at me.” He tries to coax him with a softer, calmer tone, but he knows it’s no good when he’s this far into hysterics.

“Stop!” he cries, twisting away in spite of the searing pain. “Let me go!”

Gil drops his hands in an instant and watches Malcolm curl in on himself, sucking in lungfuls of air like it’ll be his last and chokes on his spit in the process. He recoils from the edge but his body won’t let him go far, so he pulls the sheets up to his chest while he hyperventilates into the fabric, and lets the tears fall down his face and into the covers.

Minutes pass.

Minutes pass before Malcolm manages to get a better hold on his breathing. The tremor in his body has lessened but his hand still shakes underneath the blanket. His vision no longer swims and blurs at the edges, but he’s unearthed and unsteady in a sea of muted grays, clinging on for dear life as if it still has meaning.

Minutes pass, and Gil is still there, kneeling at his side from a distance, a deep uneasiness in his bones.

There’s nothing calm about the air around them; it’s just as suffocating as it was when Gil first stepped into the loft completely unaware of what was waiting for him. In the quiet of the loft, he grimaces at the grab from earlier. Every part of his training screams at him to deescalate the situation and prevent any further damage to the body; even so, the father in him refuses to watch Malcolm carve himself up when he’s too far gone for words.

Touch is out of the question.

No signs of recognition anywhere in his eyes, and the all-too familiar signs of Malcolm floating in and out of consciousness breaks Gil’s heart knowing that he might’ve done more harm than good. So, he pushes off his knees to stand. “You don’t have to say anything right now. Just know that I’ll be here if you need me.”

He steps away from the bed and pads through the living room, shedding his coat and shoes near the couch and walks back into the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, there isn’t much to clean, but he knows the sound of running water and keeping his hands busy is more welcoming than the static in Malcolm’s head. It doesn’t take long to clean a few mugs and a couple of plates.

A pile of fresh laundry sits at the top of the stairs unfolded in a basket, so Gil picks it up and takes it downstairs right next to his closet, keeping himself occupied with the rest of his clothes while eyeing the bed for movement. Clothes out away and in the order Malcolm prefers, Gil walks back out to check on him. Nothing has changed.

Ever patient, Gil quietly straightens up the living area of the loft, rearranging the few books on the table, idly wondering why his weapons case was left open as he gently slides it shut. It’s not important; he’s pretty sure there’s a good reason why Malcolm had it placed as such. Research, perhaps.

He glances over at the bed for another check in. Malcolm hasn't moved from his position, but his body seems less rigid and defensive, and Gil guesses he’s slowly finding his way to himself. Usually, a shower helps, something to relax the muscles. Just as his hand falls to the handle on the bathroom door, a soft “Don’t,” stops him dead in his tracks. It doesn’t even sound like Malcolm when he says it, just a shell of someone Gil is supposed to care for even though there is a tremendous amount of distance between them.

“Malcolm?”

For the first time, his eyes shift in Gil‘s direction.

“Don’t touch anything.”

Gil turns on his heels. “Is there a reason why I shouldn’t?”

He goes quiet again, and Gil kicks himself for it. Padding over to the bed in a smooth stride, Gil sits on the trunk at the foot of the bed close enough to talk, but far about to give him his space.

His eyes shift to the blanket again, his frown ebbing away into genuine sympathy and concern for what he can’t comprehend. For Malcolm to become so guarded even around him has only happened on a few occasions, none of them ending well – a hospital more times than Gil can count.

Gil tries to level with Malcolm. “I need to know what happened, kid.” His eyes advert to the blanket again. “I need to know how bad it is.” The covers are still pulled up to his face, tight grip at the edges, still shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. “Did someone do this?”

He swallows the spit in his mouth. “Yes.”

That just makes his blood boil. But, he knows that showing any sign of emotion will turn Malcolm away, so he sticks to a professional gaze rather than his own personal feelings. “Do you know who did this to you?”

Malcolm nods. He wants to ask him for a description of whoever invaded his space, an ID for the bastard who has made him a victim in his own home, but he sticks to the basics.

Gil takes it in stride. “Are you hurt? Are you in any pain?”

Malcolm nods again.

“Do I need to call someone?”

He fervently shakes his head. “I can’t stay.”

Gil frowns, but keeps his gaze neutral. “We should get you to a hospital, Bright.”

Malcolm shakes his head even harder and Gil can see the prickle of tears again. “He ruined it, Gil,” he whispers, voice wavering. “He _ruined_ it. I can’t be here, I can’t. I can’t stay. I have to go, I have to go,” he rushes out, chest constricting in panic, then the blanket falls to his lap and starts to move his legs.

“Wait, Bright –”

A high-pitched cry breaks the silence, sending chills down Gil’s spine as he rushes to stop Malcolm from moving any further. “Kid, you’re _hurt_ ,” but Malcolm doesn’t want to hear it. What lies beneath the sheet terrifies Gil to his very core; he’s seen this before – hell, he’s been on the force for too long not to have a single clue – and it’s killing him knowing that it’ll be Malcolm’s name on the report, and not some stranger that he doesn’t know.

Malcolm, the child he saved. Who saved him.

Malcolm just shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think of a way out. “I can’t _stay_ here, Gil, I can’t. He touched everything…he touched Sunshine.” And that seems to break him down even more, scratching at his skin as his stomach turns. “I need to go. I can’t stay here.”

“You’re right,” Gil says, and perhaps the only smart thing he’s said since he got here. “You can’t stay here. You need a hospital and I’m not leaving here until I know that you’re safe, okay?” He stretches an arm behind his back and stops short of his neck, his fingers slowly curling away and falling to the bed. This isn’t the kind of comfort that Malcolm needs right now.

Malcolm goes quiet again. A hospital means he’ll be gone for a few days. His loft will be left to sit and soak in the hands of what Thomas left behind, tarnished without a single piece of DNA to show for it. It also means someone else will have to see him naked.

Right now, all he wants is for the pain to stop. Thinking about the rest of the details only breeds power to the voices in his head who are hellbent on getting rid of his pain in a much more permanent fashion.

“No ambulances.”

The small bit of anxiety gnawing at Gil ebbs away. “No ambulances.”

A small nod of agreement has Gil moving from his spot to standing by the edge, silently debating how he’s going to move Malcolm without adding to the pain. A feat that's nearly impossible in his state, but he doesn’t have any other options.

“Tell me what I need to do, kid.”

It is perhaps one of the worst moments of their lives. Both for different reasons.

“Just give me a second.”

Gil steps out of the loft for a moment and waits on the other side of the front door. He double checks his pockets for the essentials before walking down the stairs to unlock the front entrance. By the time he comes back up, Malcolm has wrapped himself in a cocoon of his bed covers, silently waiting for the inevitable. His phone and wallet slide into Gil’s other pocket, another weight cementing just how serious and delicate this is.

They wish it never came to this.

“Hold onto me.” His arm slides underneath his covered legs, careful of areas higher than his knees, and waits for Malcolm to latch on while his other hand rests across his lower back. Knees bent and ready, Gil presses a soft kiss to his hair. “I’m sorry, Malcolm.”

The soft aroma of his cologne grounds him like an anchor in a storm, burying his face in Gil’s neck against the plush fabric of his turtleneck he loves so much. A genuine distraction from the noise he can’t seem to turn off.

Light as a feather, Gil carries Malcolm bridal style through the loft and down the stairs with caution, apologies rattling off his tongue every time he hears a hiss or gasp.

He briefly sets him down on his two feet with a death grip to keep him upright and the blanket secure, then gently eases him into the passenger seat of his car and quickly shuts the door.

After Gil runs back to lock every door behind them, he jumps into the front seat and starts the ignition. He spares a glance to his right, only to break his own heart at the sight of Malcolm leaning against the window with the same distant look from earlier, misty eyed and numb, his mind elsewhere.

Gil keeps his eyes on the road.

The ride to the hospital is a somber one. Parked by the emergency room, Gil leaves Malcolm to flag down a nurse by the front desk, explaining the delicate situation while attempting to keep his emotions buried behind a calm demeanor. He turns back to the car then to the nurse again, and it all starts to sink in really fast. Everything that’s about to happen next.

The report.

An investigation.

A kit.

Pictures.

Everything passes in a blur.

Malcolm doesn’t really register the voice calling to him, or the blanket laid over the back of a wheelchair behind a pair of scrubs and a sympathetic expression. Both waiting for him.

She is talking.

Then he’s moving. A quiet night washes upon the shore of white and antiseptic, obnoxiously overwhelming to the point where he can’t hear the door close behind him. Gil isn’t here.

The only thing that keeps him safe is the blanket. She says he has to take it off.

He lies bare on the bed.

His body left to be used. Taken from. Privatized for their eyes only.

Swabs over his skin like cold fingertips, soft reassurances and permission to continue, questions made to feel like this is all his fault. He feels everything and nothing at all.

Completely unmade.

Then he’s moving. Another room and a bed made just for him, prepped for someone that’s hurt.

He frowns in on himself. He’s not supposed to be here, wherever here is. A bed. Another bed. Another person touching him. More questions he can’t find the words to answer, his tongue too heavy and his throat too sore.

Then he’s moving, hooked up to an IV and carefully placed on the cool sheets of the hospital bed with the constant sound of his mechanical heart grating against his ears.

He wishes it would stop.

Thoughts circle on an endless loop he can’t pull himself out of it; the nausea, all of the things that Thomas said, and the beginnings of a plan to make the wretched beeping stop that might not come to fruition. At least not tonight. He’s too tired for that.

A squeeze to his hand and a painful look breaks the fog with a silent promise.

Eyes that promise him the sun will be there when he wakes up.

Eyes that promise him warmth, safety, and security.

Eyes that promise him everything will be okay.

Eyes that have never lied to him before.

He turns his head away from Gil and stares up at the plain, dotted ceiling above as his heart starts to slow and his eyes start to water.

This time, he doesn’t believe him.


End file.
